The Breaking of a Wave

by Fabio Genovesi

  And if you return to work, Serena, you know that every minute will be just like that. Hugs, long looks, assurances. And you can’t take it. Not now. One day maybe. Though you can’t be sure. All you know is: not now.

  Thank God Gemma hired that girl on a trial basis, that girl who just finished that totally bullshit beauty academy and who may not know how to do anything yet still gives it her all, working for next to nothing in the hopes that one day Gemma will officially hire her, even though in reality Gemma’s just waiting for you to return to the shop, and then she’ll bid her goodbye and send her back out onto the street, in search of the next illusion.

  In the meantime you open the freezer, and after the scalding steam from the pan, the cool breeze on your face carries you back to the here and now, to the kitchen, to Ghost House. You pick up the fish sticks, reseal them, and go back to listening to Ferro. “And that’s how I fed him. I’d chew it up good, then he’d stick his head in my mouth and eat.”

  You don’t understand. You missed part of the conversation. You ask who was eating from his mouth, and the kids with their excited cries tear you away from the last bit of elsewhere you’d drifted off to.

  “Checco, Mom! He ate right from inside his mouth!”

  “Who’s Checco?” Mom asks.

  “Checco was Mr. Ferro’s wood pigeon!”

  “A live wood pigeon?”

  I nod yes and so does Zot, harder and harder and over and over.

  “He lived with Grandfather, right, Grandfather? Tell her!”

  Ferro grunts. “All right, I’ll start over from the beginning, seeing as dinner’s never coming. But I’ll stick to the short version cause I don’t feel like telling it again.” He makes himself comfy, leaning back in the chair and removing the napkin/blanket from his belly. His shirt underneath is so full of stains I don’t know what good a napkin would do.

  “So, one day I go outside to hit the crapper.”

  “Ah,” Mom says. “You had an outhouse?”

  “Of course. It was a shed, it was big, and it suited me just fine. Then that dimwit daughter of mine started in complaining and I had to install it inside. I spent a ton of money and then she up and took off. And she left me with that cramped toilet and this boy wonder in the house,” he says. (There’s no need for him to indicate Zot.) “Anyway, I go out to the crapper, and I find this little hairball on the ground. A wood pigeon had fallen from its nest. I picked it up, thinking I’d smash it against a tree to put it out of its misery. But I saw it was pretty much alive, raising its head, sizing me up . . .”

  “So Grandfather brought it into the house!” exclaims Zot.

  “Yep, I brought it into the house. I wanted to raise it. But that’s no small chore. Wood pigeon aren’t like other birds. Blackbirds, finches—they open their beaks, they’re there with their beaks open waiting for their mother to toss them their food. In fact, if you want to raise them, all you need to do is spread some mash on a stick, put it in its mouth, and they knock it back. But not wood pigeon. It’s a tough bird. It’s proud. Soon as it’s born it wants to eat all on its own. The mother stands there with food in her mouth, and he stretches his neck out, sticks his beak in, and grabs it himself. So what could I do? I’d eat lunch and dinner like normal. Then I’d chew up the last bite and stick it in my mouth. I’d go to Checco and he’d stretch out his head and eat. Just like that.”

  “Just like that, Grandfather? From your mouth?” Zot asks, and he attempts to put a finger in his mouth as if it were Checco’s beak. Except he still has the fork in his hand and almost takes out an eye.

  “Yep, like that, for a month and a half. And in the meantime Checco grew up, fledged, started flying. He trailed me everywhere, always stayed close. It was incredible. I’d go to the kitchen and he’d follow. I’d sit down on the sofa and he’d perch on the arm. Even when I went to the crapper he’d stand there in front of the bowl. Birds don’t smell anything, after all. At least I don’t think they do. Cause if they do I don’t know how he was able to stand it in there sometimes. Anyways, always underfoot, like a dog. Then one day we were in the garden hunting for mushrooms and another wood pigeon arrived. Perched right on top of a pine tree. Checco noticed her, looked up, then flew over to the tree for a bit. He came back to me, rubbed his little head against my leg like always, and then flew away with that other one. So long, Checco,” says Ferro. He looks at us a moment, then down at his empty plate.

  “What happened after that?” Zot asks.

  “After that nothing. He left. And that’s how it ought to be. That’s nature. But you know what happened?”

  We quickly shake our heads, happy just to know something else happened. Anything is better than Checco going away and never coming back.

  “A month went by. I was in the garden sawing wood. I remember it like it was right now. I hear a sound and recognize Checco’s call. Glu gluuu, glu gluuu. I look up and there he is on that same branch with the other wood pigeon and two little ones. He’d come to show me his family, get it? He flew down for a moment and rested his head against my leg, all the while keeping an eye on his family up there. I pet him, told him he was a good wood pigeon, and then they all flew off.”

  “And after that?” I ask, my voice so weak it almost dies before leaving my mouth.

  “After what?”

  “After that he never came back again?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Ferro.”

  Ferro doesn’t answer immediately. He picks up his glass and rests it on his lips, even though it’s empty. He coughs. “What the hell are you sorry about, kid? That’s nature, that’s the way it goes. He was born with wings, he was meant to fly. Besides, ever since then, tons of wood pigeons have taken up residence in these parts.” Ferro raises his hand and flaps it in the air, as if the kitchen were full of flying wood pigeons.

  “Are they Checco’s kids?” I ask.

  “You bet. And grandkids.”

  I turn to Mom and the pan puffing smoke while one of Checco’s kids or grandkids cooks inside. Now I’m positive I won’t eat it. I think of Ferro chewing his dinner and leaning over for the bird to pick food from his mouth. Then I think of Ferro loading his rifle, aiming between the branches, and bringing down that same bird, picking it up off the ground, plucking it, tossing it into a sauce. Same person, same birds—does that change anything? I don’t know. But I’m not the only one who doesn’t know, since Mom stops stirring, kneels to turn the fish sticks in the oven, and says, “Wait a second, Ferro, you saved Checco and cared for him like he was a person. Then you turn around and shoot his grandkids and eat them?”

  “Why not? What’s so strange about that?” Ferro pours himself more wine and takes another drink. His voice keeps getting louder and drowsier, and more and more often the words out of his mouth are curse words. “That’s life, boys and girls. The faster you learn that, the better. Life’s a storm. A squall. It’s a flurry of beatings, and every once and while, by accident, there comes a caress. But that caress is one out of a hundred thousand. The rest is just beatings delivered good and hard. In fact, I helped Checco, in the sense that I took him in, raised him myself, and placed him back among the living. But this here is life. I cared for him, but at the same time that was his own goddamn business. And his kids’ goddamn business, and his grandkids’ . . . one day someone gives you something to eat, the next he shoots you and cooks you for dinner. These things happen, they happen all the time. They’re beatings, kids, beatings every day: the sooner you learn to take them, the better.”

  That’s all Ferro says before sliding his chair out, turning to Mom, and asking when we’re going to eat—he’s dying of hunger.

  “Yes, Grandfather, but . . .” Zot says. “But in my opinion the important thing is never to get used to those beatings. To not reach the point that our face becomes accustomed to them, because when that marvelous caress finally c
omes, we have to feel the full force of it, we have to relish it deep down,” he says, smiling broadly, staring down at his plate. Even Mom turns around to look at him, and for a moment in the kitchen there’s only a great big silence that no one wants to break.

  Then comes Ferro’s voice, shattering everything. “I can’t believe my ears, kid. Did you really just say that crap? You’re not normal, dammit. Life has given you nothing but beatings and you talk about caresses with a straight face . . . Hey there, wake up! You were born in Chernobyl, Maremma Cane! They locked you up in an orphanage. They shipped you off here and never came back for you. What does life have to do to you for you to wake up? I don’t know how the hell you do it. I don’t know how this kid here can even stand being your girlfriend.”

  I open my mouth, ready to snap at him for the thousandth time that no, I’m not Zot’s girlfriend. But there’s Zot with his head down by his plate, his fork still in his hand, something quivering across his face, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a smile. So I say nothing and keep still.

  Leave it to Mom to lift the siege. She turns off the flame under the wood pigeon, which probably isn’t quite done cooking, but who cares, it’s time to bring it to the table and fill Ferro’s stomach with something other than wine.

  She puts the lid back on, picks the pan off the stove by its handle, carries it to the table, and says, “There. We’re ready. Careful not to bu—”

  The last word catches in her throat as the pan flips over and falls on the floor. Or rather, not on the floor but on Mom. Wood pigeon, steaming sauce, everything. Over her army pants, her bare feet. And the sauce drips down and whatever it touches it burns, and Mom screams.

  I jump up and run over to her. So does Zot. I look for a dish towel, Zot passes it to me, I place it on her ankle, and Mom screams louder.

  “Sorry, Mom, sorry, sorry, sorry!”

  “Cold water,” says Ferro, trying to extract himself from his chair. “Pour cold water over her foot!”

  Zot runs to the sink, grabs a pot, and fills it with water, which he proceeds to pour over Mom’s leg. Somehow he manages to soak everything but her foot—her pants, her shirt, even me.

  “What the hell are you doing!” cries Ferro. “Pour it on her foot, don’t drop a water bomb on her!”

  “It’s fine, Ferro,” Mom says. “It’s fine this way.”

  She snatches the dish towel out of my hands and dabs her foot. She makes a noise through her teeth like she’s sucking air.

  “Goddammit, kid,” says Ferro. “Be careful with hot stuff, it’s dangerous.”

  “Careful?!” she says, waving something black in her hand. “The handle broke. You and your shitty pans!”

  Ferro doesn’t say anything, just makes a noise with his throat, and he stays that way while Mom lifts the dish towel a little to examine underneath. I don’t look. I can’t. I look at Zot, and Zot looks at me. Our eyes wide, our mouths open. We don’t say a word, but there’s no need, we both have the same thoughts banging around in our heads, scattered and broken and shining in places, like the pans, handles, and lids that the sea washed ashore today.

  The sea had warned me to be careful. It tried to. And seeing as I did not understand, it screamed its warning with a hundred thousand pans and lids scattered across the beach. I can see them again now, even when I close my eyes and squeeze them tight. And the harder I squeeze, the brighter the pans shine in the dark, and I don’t know how long I can stand to keep them closed.

  DANTE ALIGHIERI’S WET UNDIES

  Gucci is a toy poodle the size of a sewer rat, with two giant bug eyes with which she gives the world dirty looks as she trolls the shops downtown in her owner’s purse. Mummy and Daddy are nuts about her, but splitting their time between London, New York, and the Côte d’Azur, they only get to enjoy her a month out of the year, at their villa in Forte dei Marmi, where they have her shipped over from Saint Petersburg on a private jet.

  Gucci travels with diamond collars, two Louis Vuitton handbags stuffed with toys and tailor-made coats, and her nanny, a Filipina whose name nobody knows. Gucci hates her nanny, just as she hates everything else in the world that isn’t Mummy and Daddy. The one way she expresses her disdain for the totality of existence? Gucci barks. Nonstop. She opens her microscopic mouth and spits out this sharp yet gruff noise, a jarful of nails that stabs you in the brain.

  Gucci barks at this miserable, mediocre, inferior world that insists on assaulting her long-suffering gaze with what it thinks is a fine figure. She barks when she does her business. She barks when she eats her chicken bonbons with tuna hearts. Even in her sleep Gucci barks. She barks at her Filipina nanny, the pilot, the hostess, and, upon landing in Pisa, the airport personnel. She barks at the driver who chauffeurs her to Forte dei Marmi and at every single stoplight they encounter on the road. No one in her vicinity is spared, and every morning her Filipina nanny wakes up to find thicker and thicker clumps of hair in her hands.

  But for Rambo, her bark is a blessing. If Gucci and family are arriving, he can hear her from a mile away, just in time to jump out of the pool, climb the hedge, and disappear. Altough in two years of training in the Russians’ pool that’s only happened once. The villa is always empty and locked, the pool his for the taking. It merely requires he pause every five laps, pull his head out of the water, and prick up his ears: if all he hears are the mingled songs of blackbirds and finches, Rambo can go on swimming.

  Which has worked wonders for him. Ever since he started coming here he’s felt his abdomen tighten, his legs grow stronger, who knows what a stud he’ll shape up to be if those fools don’t order the workers to drain the pool this fall.

  Once he’s done his laps, he’ll dry off, throw on his fatigues, and head to the hospital to see Marino, who asked him for the crossword, a phone card, and a box of crackers. Shit his mom should handle, but the old woman is slipping. She forgets everything. The thought of her pisses Rambo off and he drives his arms into the water as if he were slapping her senseless. Life’s shit. You’re born and you grow up to be strong and agile. Then one day something changes, you’ve reached the top and begun your descent down a muddy road full of potholes. At every pothole you lose a little something, and in no time you’ve become an old clunker scrambling to keep up. That’s how it goes. Nature cheats you. Nature and society. One makes you old and the other chokes you to death with its bullshit rules and conventions. But Rambo won’t stand for it. Rambo’s a fighter. He’ll stay fit and answer the assault blow for blow, kicking nature in the ass and knocking society in the jaw. In fact he trains every day now, only stopping to hear if that asshole dog is coming before launching forward again.

  Things have actually been looking up in the last few days, now that Sandro’s accompanying him to the house. While Rambo swims, Sandro stands by the towering hedge that separates the street from the yard. He practically acts as his lookout. Perfect, even if the reason for his friend being here is so sad and pathetic that, in theory, Rambo should be pissed off and spit in his face.

  But he doesn’t have time for that. Right now the only thing that exists for him is swimming. His lungs bellow out the air, his big commanding muscles labor, and the water around him makes a sound like a smote enemy surrendering. Rambo plows forward, feeling a pleasure inside his body that couldn’t possibly be topped. He probably shouldn’t say so, seeing as he’s never had sex before, but there’s no way sleeping with a woman can be more pleasurable than this.

  The laurel hedge is towering, nine or ten feet high, and thick as a wall. But laurel is made of leaves and branches, and if you squint you can manage to see to the other side. In fact that’s what Sandro’s doing here; if he buries his head in the leaves he can catch a glimpse of the street and the little wall out front, he can catch a glimpse of Serena.

  Every day around 3 o’clock she comes to the cemetery. He found out thanks to Zot, who can’t help but run his mouth at catechism. The only ti
me he stops talking is when the other kids slap him or kick him in the backside. After which he launches into yet another discourse apropos of nothing. The discourses themselves drift like sand but run a metal detector over the whole expanse and every so often you might unearth something interesting. It’s how Sandro discovered Serena now leaves the house and walks to the cemetery every day around 3 o’clock.

  You can only get to the cemetery from the street on the other side of the hedge, a narrow stretched deserted and called, not incidentally, Paradise Road, which is why every day Sandro comes here and waits for her. Rambo swims and counts laps aloud while Sandro keeps watch, his head stuck between the dark pointy branches.

  Sometimes he hears footsteps and his heart starts racing, but it turns out to be just an old lady carrying flowers or a dog on a leash. But when Serena actually turns up, there’s no way you can mistake her: one day she’s in running shoes and the next in combat boots, yet her movements are always quick and graceful, they become attuned to his heartbeat while his throat begins to constrict and his eyes open wide to take all of her in, to smear her across his retinas as much as possible while her footsteps set her long soft hair dancing. Her hair moves in one long wave from her shoulder to her back, and at the same time in many different waves, both placid and relentless, stealing the air around her, sucking it all into a whirlpool. Sandro watches her, breathless. He clasps the laurel branches and squeezes them till they pierce his skin, more and more tempted to climb this hedge, fling himself at Serena, and—so much for the romance of wavelike hair and fairy-tale footsteps—put his arms around her, push her up against the little wall on Paradise Road and wear down his dick to a nub inside her.